


Steady

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: A bloody-and-battered Sam shows up at her door in the middle of the night. She does her best to patch him up, but his worst injury is out of her control.





	Steady

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. There are some graphic descriptions of wounds and blood.
> 
> 2\. While I did research to make this work as accurate as possible, I am not a medical professional, so please consider this nothing more than a work of fiction.

She jolts awake to the screech of tires peeling down her typically dead-silent street.

The glowing digits on her alarm clock read 2:05 A.M.

With her brain bumbling and her heart hammering, it takes several tries, but she eventually pulls out the drawer of her nightstand. Between a tube of peppermint lip balm and a pair of nearly-fraying earbuds, she locates the folding knife Dean gave her for her birthday last year. She flicks it open with one trembling hand and uses the other to fling back the sheets.

Two steps outside her bedroom, she freezes. A measured thumping sounds in her ears, and, this time, it’s not her pulse. It’s… footsteps. Someone--or _something_ \--is ascending the stairs to her nearby porch.

In a split second, she decides maybe she can catch them off-guard if she acts quickly. It’s risky, but it’s better than being a sitting duck. She pads across the carpeted foyer to her large front door. Never has she been more grateful that she went with the solid oak option over the glass model she’d also considered.

She grasps the doorknob, ready to react to whatever the intruder has in mind, when there’s an erratic knock. She jumps in surprise at the unexpected noise. Confusion ruins her initial plan.

She gazes through the peephole--the only transparent piece between her and her visitor--and practically collapses in relief.

Due to his height, she can only see as high as his lips, but she’d recognize that man anywhere.

She closes the knife, stuffs it in the pocket of her striped sleep shorts, and opens the door.

“Sam.”

Her stomach drops several stories.

Her friend has an arm braced against the house. He’s out of breath, and there are small-but-recent scrapes scattered on his face and neck.

“Hi,” he greets her with a fading smile.

She attempts to make sense of the scene in front of her. She notes there’s no Impala in the driveway. In fact, there’s no vehicle at all.

A stifled groan from the hunter brings her back to the moment. She remembers he’s barely standing. What an idiot she is.

“Sorry, sorry. God. Come in.” She steps aside so the entrance is clear.

He removes his hand from the bricks and wavers immediately.

She dives to steady him. Her arm goes around his waist as she encourages him to lean into her. At their sudden union, he cries out so loudly, it echoes in the empty street. She’s quick to put space between their bodies. Separated, she’s aware of an odd sensation. Her t-shirt is… wet. She runs her fingers along the fabric over her ribs, and they come away streaked with red. The breath rushes from her lungs as she finally notices that Sam’s navy jacket is soaked the very same way.

For the sake of both of them, she decides to block out the panic and emotion threatening to overwhelm her and enter “nurse mode.” She worked the desk at a small urgent care office for a year and a half, and picked up a few things. In fact, that’s where she met the Winchesters. Dean had snapped an ankle… In recent months, the patching up of wayward hunters has added to her skills.

With as little physical contact as possible, she directs Sam to the couch in her living room. In their trail, he grips any stable object--the wall, the back of a chair--he can for support.

“Sam,” she uses his name in hopes of focusing him. “Where’s Dean? Do we need to send in backup?”

“He’s… not with me,” Sam pants. “We’ve… been apart… for a couple of weeks.”

“Geeze, the two of you…” she mutters. But she can’t concentrate on their squabbles; she’s worried about Sam’s injuries. _His injuries._ “Cass! Did you call Cass yet?”

“A few times. He… didn’t answer. Prayed, too, but… He’s been pretty busy… upstairs.”

Hoping Sam can remain upright without assistance for ten seconds, she tosses a throw blanket over the sofa to save it from probable stains. Sam sinks into the plush piece of furniture with a grunt.

“I’ll be right back,” she promises. Running, she retrieves her first-aid kit from the bathroom and a bottle of water from the fridge.

On her way to Sam, she clicks on two lamps. She drags the coffee table an extra foot away from the couch so she can sit on it comfortably while still being close enough to fix him up.

“Your side _is_ the worst, right?” she checks while snapping on a pair of gloves.

“Yeah,” he replies in a way that makes it sound more like a question than a statement.

“Can you sit up just a little? So that we can get your jacket off?” She could probably work around it, but she’s positive he needs stitches, and she doesn’t want anything in her way.

Suppressing a groan, Sam straightens as much as he can manage. He twists his arms toward his back in hopes of slipping them out of the sleeves. The right one travels easily, but the left one only makes it half as far before he can’t stand the pain.

Reading his struggle, she rises. “No, honey, that’s good. I’ve got it.” Behind the couch, she removes his coat and uncharacteristically-open flannel as her cheeks burn at the term of endearment she let fall from her lips.

She chucks the clothes onto the hardwood floor and returns to the table while Sam collapses among the cushions. His dark-gray v-neck is stuck to him like glue--partially with sweat, partially with blood. There’s no way that’s coming off with traditional methods.

She digs out a pair of scissors from the first-aid kit and secures the bottom of his shirt with her index finger and thumb. Gazing up into his eyes, she seeks permission. “May I?”

“Mm-hmm,” he mumbles.

She keeps the fabric taut, away from his skin as she slices from hemline to collar. She yanks apart the split cloth. It gets caught on his vast shoulders, but she has the access she needs. Reaching for gauze, she internally praises herself for her dedication to pure concentration. Otherwise, his naked, glistening, rock-solid torso may cause her to lose consciousness.

Supplies prepared, she assesses the wound. It’s roughly two inches long and not _too_ deep. Thankfully, there’s less blood gushing out than when Sam was moving. Still, she needs to get it closed. Now.

She wets a large piece of gauze with half a miniature bottle’s worth of vodka. She doesn’t drink, but she always has three of the small containers in her first-aid kit for emergency use. She imagines Sam is dying to bring one of them to his lips, but she needs all of them for his injuries. Besides, with his blood loss and being kind of out of it, getting him buzzed is not a viable option.

“You ready?”

“Do it,” he instructs through clenched teeth.

“Okay. On three. One…” She slams the cotton onto the laceration, and his entire body flinches.

“Ah, fuck,” he seethes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She leaves the dressing in place for an additional fifteen seconds before giving him a break. He sighs when the torture lets up, but she puts him through another round a moment later.

“Sam, this isn’t exactly fresh,” she announces while stringing a sterile needle. “How long ago did this happen?”

“I… I’m not sure,” he admits. She’s curious if the worry in his eyes is reflected in hers.

“What _do_ you remember?” Suddenly, she’s afraid the gash she’s tending to is the least of Sam’s problems.

He exhales forcefully when the needle first digs into his skin. He goes without replying long enough to double her nerves. Fortunately, when he speaks, it seems like the pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together.

“It was a werewolf,” Sam begins. “I tracked him to some alley. He was alone all night; I thought I found my chance.” He scoffs. “Ran into two more waiting behind a dumpster.”

“Shit,” she mutters, half-finished with sewing him up.

“Luckily, those two were pretty much rabid--”

“‘Luckily,’” she chuckles lightly.

“What?” Sam’s brow knits in confusion.

“Never mind.”

It takes a few seconds for him to continue. “They wanted a meal, not justice, so I got the drop on ‘em pretty fast. But the one I’d been following threw me into the wall right after I, uh, killed his boyfriend.” Sam clears his throat. “Left his mark in the process…”

With only three stitches to go, she shakes her head. “Sam, you didn’t have to do that by yourself. I could’ve helped. I know I’m not that experienced in the field, but you were in my backyard, and you didn’t call me?”

“No, I, uh, I was up in Grand Rapids.”

Her hands freeze as she processes Sam’s admission. “You-- Grand Rapids? Sam, that’s, like, two hours away. What did--”

“I hit that wall pretty h-ard,” his voice cracks. “I could’ve stolen a car with the cut.” He laughs dryly and then winces at the exertion. “I’ve driven with worse. But this time… my head was… messed up. I didn’t wanna chance it. I couldn’t risk hurting--or _killing_ \--someone. So, I hitchhiked in some drifter’s backseat.”

She doesn’t know what to say. She snips the excess thread from his suture, done with one nightmare and working her way through another.

Sam juts his chin toward the wound and fills the silence. “Good thing he spotted me _before_ the blood started soaking through my coat.”

“Your _head_.” She feels tears welling up as she applies a bandage over the stitches. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“I… didn’t think to,” he practically whispers.

“Jesus,” she exasperates. The signs of a possible concussion have been there since he arrived, and she didn’t pick up on them.

“I’m sorry.” His expression is drenched in guilt.

“No.” She places her hand over his. “I… I’m pissed at _myself_. I should’ve noticed.”  She’s sure it’s a waste of breath, but she adds, “Sam, you might need to go to a hospital.”

“No one’s stitches are as clean as yours,” he counters with an almost-shy grin.

Unable to accept levity, she stresses, “No, Sam, your _head_.”

“Oh,” he utters in a way that makes her wonder if he forgot about it again. “I’ll be fine.”

She wants to shake him. “I’ll monitor you for a few hours, but if you can’t pass my tests, we’re gonna get you to the emergency room if it’s the last goddamn thing I do. You hear me?” The panic in her words scares _her_.

“Okay,” he agrees, visibly surprised by her intensity.

“Good.” She inhales deeply, centering herself. “Here, drink this.” She passes him the water, and then gestures to his face. “I’m gonna take care of the rest of those scratches.”

Sam gulps down the beverage and then fidgets with the bottle as she prepares cotton balls for additional disinfecting. She begins with his neck, no doubt dealing with sensitive skin. As expected, he bites his lip in reaction to the sting. Watching the clock behind him, her first “test” occurs to her.

“Sam, it’s 2:30. I’m gonna ask you what time I said in a bit, okay?”

“2:30. Got it.”

She works in silence until all that remains is applying a butterfly strip to a gash above his right eyebrow. As gently as possible, she tucks his bangs behind his ear. His lids droop at her touch.

“Sweetie, you’ve gotta keep your eyes open,” she reminds him in a hushed tone. Sunflower irises bore into her as her jaw drops, realizing _she friggin’_ _did it again_. She stumbles to recover. “Just-- I don’t want-- You can’t fall asleep until we figure out what’s going on here.”

“You’re right,” he acknowledges softly.

“Speaking of,” she ventures. “Those lights.” She points at the still-shining table and floor lamps. “Are they bothering you?”

“No,” he answers with conviction.

Her shoulders relax a little, but they’re not out of the woods. “I’m gonna clean this up.” She collects the soiled medical supplies and shoves them into their wrappers. “While I’m gone, find something to watch on TV with the volume low.” Sam steals the remote from the end table. “We’ll see if the noise affects you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She’s nearly out of the room when she remembers. “Oh! Hey, what time did I tell you?”

Without delay, Sam responds, “2:30.”

“And how long ago would you say that was?”

He squints. “Uh, maybe twenty minutes ago?”

“Twenty-three minutes ago.” A pleased smile lights up her face, and Sam doesn’t hesitate to share one of his own.

After disposing of the trash, washing her hands thoroughly, and returning the first-aid kit to its designated spot, she goes to her bedroom. She kneels before her mattress and places her folded hands on top of it.

“Castiel? I don’t know where you are, or what you might be facing, but, please, _please_ , get to my house as soon as you can. Sam got pretty beat up on a hunt, and I took care of the external damage, but I’m worried he may have a concussion. And he doesn’t want to go to a doctor. I…” She licks her lips. “I’m scared, Cass. Please. Get here.”

After retrieving her cell from the floor--unaware she’d knocked it down in her frenzy earlier--she stands. She scrolls to _Dean_ in her contacts. His phone is either dead or shut off because she gets a recording of him telling her to leave her nightmare at the tone.

“Dean. Uh… Sam showed up at my place looking like he went through a meat grinder. I’ve got him mostly fixed up, but his head’s… off. Whatever’s happening with you two, please just... put it aside and get in the car.” As her thumb disconnects the call, she realizes she’s shaking.

She snags another throw from her closet before heading down to Sam. She knows what she’s asking the Winchesters for this Christmas…

“How ya doing?” she inquires as she sits next to Sam on the couch, draping the blanket over his bare skin. Even if he had a spare, he’s still in no shape to strain himself while putting on a shirt.

“All right,” he responds, mostly reassuringly. He snuggles into the fleece, and she melts.

“No issues with the sound?”

“Not yet.”

She nods in approval. But it’s also only on Level 4. “I’m gonna turn it up a little bit, okay?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

She clicks the _Volume_ button until it reaches Level 9, which is where she usually has it set.

Nearly instantaneously with the rise of the audio, her phone vibrates her in pocket. She peeks at Sam, but he’s engrossed in the _Law & Order _rerun. She checks the text. It’s Dean.

 

Be there by lunch.

            3:06 A.M.

 

She sighs, tucking her feet underneath her. She chooses not to upset Sam by telling him she heard from his brother. Normally, she’d hate keeping anything from him, but he doesn’t need any more on his plate.

“Are you tired?” she wonders aloud.

“Uh, a little, but I think I’m still riding the wave of an adrenaline high.” He chuckles.

“That’s good, because I’m not letting you sleep for a while.”

“Well, that’s rude,” Sam teases with a wink. She grins.

They sit in comfortable silence, invested in the episode.

And then, Sam shifts a couple of times in less than a minute. She hears him suck in a breath and knows something’s wrong.

She turns to him, concerned. “What is it?”

“It’s too loud,” he admits quietly, not looking at her.

Her heart disintegrates as she scrambles to hit _Power_ on the remote. He covers his eyes with his palm, and she rushes over to turn off one of the lamps, too. Back on the coffee table, she rests her hand on his knee.

She addresses him in a whisper. “Sam? Talk to me, please.”

His right arm drops back to his side, and, even in the lower light, she can see that he’s become paler.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” He swallows thickly.

She springs into action. Bounding into her office, she dumps pieces of discarded paper from the trash can onto the floor, and has it in Sam’s lap within seconds.

Leaning forward with a grimace, he white-knuckles the bin. She worries the pressure from his new positioning will affect the fresh stitches.

“Take a deep breath,” she coos. He obeys, and she detects his body loosening up a bit. “Another one…”

He continues to regulate his breathing on his own. She gently holds his wrists, hoping to soothe him.

“I’m good,” he finally announces. “It passed.” He puts the trash can down by his feet and sits back.

She sighs heavily. In the quiet, dim room, her fingers travel to his hair. She rakes them through his locks, eliciting a barely-detectable moan from his throat.

Her phone buzzes, snapping them both out of the moment. “It’s Cass,” she reports. Sam’s eyebrows rise. Speaking in a muted voice for Sam’s sake, she answers, “Hey.”

“Hello. I just returned from Heaven.”

Sam’s also listening intently.

“You… heard me?” She glances Sam’s way, and she catches his understanding set in.

“I heard both of you, but I couldn’t get away.”

Fear stirs in her gut. Again. “Cass, are _you_ okay?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you more later. Is Sam still at your house?”

“Yeah, he’s here.”

“I’m on my way. I just passed Peoria, Illinois. I’ll be arriving by mid-morning.”

She closes her eyes, unsuccessfully preventing her relief from spilling out. “Thank you.”

“See you soon,” the angel promises before disconnecting the call.

“He’s coming,” Sam comments aloud, as if to prove it’s true.

She nods. “But he’s still a ways away, and you…” Emotion cuts her off.

“I can make it,” Sam proclaims. She wants to believe him, but after his relapse not five minutes ago, she’s unconvinced.

“Let me run a couple more tests?” If he can handle them, maybe she’ll be able to dislodge the lump in her throat.

“Go for it.” He sounds eager, but she sees the faint sheen of sweat on his mildly-ashen face. She decides not to mention that he looks like he’s barely hanging on.

She wipes at her tears. “All right. We’re gonna check your coordination first. On your left hand, take each of your fingers and touch them to your thumb. Start with your index and end with your pinky. Then, do it another time, but reverse the order.” She goes through the process with her own digits as an example.

He’s shaking something awful, but he completes the task.

“Great. Right hand.”

After finishing, Sam gazes at her, seeking approval. He’s rewarded with a smile.

“One sec.” She steps into her office to obtain a pen. Seated in front of Sam again, she instructs, “Follow it with your eyes-- _only_ with your eyes.”

He does, but not at smoothly as he should. There’s a slight lag in the movement of those gorgeous orbs as they trace the ballpoint’s path. His face plummets. “I-I don’t know why I can’t--”

“It’s okay.” It’s _not_. She lays the pen on the table before setting up camp beside Sam on the couch. She secures his right hand in both of hers. “Just take it easy.” Never has she been so desperate for sunrise. She’s completely helpless.

He exhales deeply. “Hope Cass doesn’t run into traffic.”

“Me, too,” her voice breaks.

Sam shifts so that he can rest his head against hers.

The gesture unleashes more of her tears. “Don’t fall asleep, honey.”

“I won’t,” he assures her.

She swallows. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve gotta know something.”

“Shoot.”

“You could hardly _walk_ , and you traveled all this way. I’m pretty sure they _do_ have medical treatment in Grand Rapids.”

Sam chuckles. “Well, I, um… I was actually on my way here. Caught wind of the case when I stopped at a diner, so I took a quick detour.” He clears his throat. “Since Dean and I headed in different directions, I… It’s been lonely. I wanted to see you. Even before I got hurt, I… needed you.” She feels his jaw tighten.

She plants a chaste kiss on his throat--the only place her lips can reach without changing position. She settles her cheek into his neck, and he expels a hitched breath into her hair.

Although controlled terror swims in her blood, the truth is undebatable. “I’m glad you came.”


End file.
